Picking Up Baggage by Milorad Pejić

We are the same as our suitcases. At the baggagecarousel, it seems as though we, a little anxious,are waiting for our very selves. All eyes are fixedat the rubber curtain of the tunnel that should begincoughing out our things. When the conveyor beltstarts moving, looking as if I.D. cards were slidingon it, I can guess which hand will take which bag.Mine is not coming out yet.

Our lives are assigned the fates of our suitcases.The great love story begins with a scuffle in whichthe leather tongue on the bag of a young au-pairfrom Izmir latches onto the aluminum suitcaseof a bearded rocker from San Francisco. A long(and tragic) journey through the desert awaitsthe German trekker who, impatient, pushes throughto a backpack the size of a dead cow. The sleeveof a silk shirt is dragging behind a ripped Ikea baglike a gut. No sight of mine yet.

As if wedded to our loads, at the carousel we stareat only one point. My bag is an unhappily marriedwoman who is in no hurry to get to the exit.

MILORAD PEJIĆwas born in Tuzla, Bosnia and Herzegovina, in 1960. Since 1992 he has lived in Sweden. He has published four poetry books — two of them are also available in English and one in German. He has published poems in several international literary magazines and in several languages.